


Never Lucky

by prozacplease



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Awkwardness, Blood, Budding Love, Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Good Guy Frank, I can't believe I wrote over 4000 words about this, Menstruation, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8459104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prozacplease/pseuds/prozacplease
Summary: Periods are never convenient, but this is the worst one Karen has ever had.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off a Tumblr post that's about Frank buying tampons for Karen. I wanted to write the actual scene where Frank stands in the feminine hygiene aisle at a store, but this is from Karen's perspective and I couldn't work it in. I think it deserves its own story anyway.

The new year comes in cold and snowy. It’s nothing Karen hasn’t experienced before, being from Vermont and all. But now that the holidays are over, she is cursing the dreary weather. Even on clear days, when the sky is wide open and bright blue, it’s freezing. She hates the way the bitter wind seems to take her breath away when she inhales, or how it smacks her in the face when she rounds the corner of a building.

That’s exactly what she’s confronted with as she is walking home from the newspaper. Ellison always offers to call her a cab or find her a ride, especially now that her car is gone. Frank totalled it and she used the insurance money for a deposit on a new place. She misses the subconscious feeling of freedom that owning a car gave her, but she is glad to be rid of garage fees, parking tickets, and paying for gas. Having an apartment with a door that closes and no bullet holes in the wall is nice too.

Karen walks quickly, scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face and neck. She watches for icy patches on the sidewalk while trying to avoid other pedestrians at the same time. It’s not particularly late, but it gets dark early this time of the year and Karen wants to get home. She has cramps.

One is gnawing at her lower abdomen as he keys into her building and starts up the stairs. She took ibuprofen several hours ago, but it must not have been enough. Sitting with her heating pad and ordering takeout seems like a fine way to spend her evening. Hell, she might even take a goddamn bubble bath.

Her eyes go wide when a gloved hand suddenly clamps over her mouth from behind. Karen feels herself being pulled backwards and her first instinct is to fight. She twists against the arm that wraps around her middle, drawing her against the person standing behind her. Karen’s squawk of protest is muffled as she tries to drive an elbow or knee into her attacker.

Something about the harsh breathing behind her is familiar, but Karen is too frightened and angry to think of who it could be. Her only thought is of escape.

“Sh-sh-sh… It’s me.”

Frank Castle. But Karen doesn’t relax in his grip. She’s furious. Frank has pulled her into an alcove in the hallway, a space where a communal telephone might have been kept back in the day.

“I know, I know.” He speaks like Karen has been able to say something to him. “I’m real sorry. But someone is followin’ ya.”

That exact same moment, Karen sees an unfamiliar man bound up the stairs. He looks up and down the hallway, confused. The woman he was tailing has disappeared.

“Stay here,” Frank says.

Karen wants to screech and scold the second his hand leaves her mouth, but she knows to keep quiet. Frank leaves her in the alcove and steps into plain view. Karen’s heart is racing with so much adrenaline that she feels a little nauseous. Her head snaps to look around the corner when she hears a shotgun being cocked.

“Hey, buddy, what’s your problem? Oh, shit—!”

The man’s sentence is punctuated by the firing of his own gun. Frank grabs his arm in a crushing grip and directs the errant blast toward the ceiling. The two slugs blow a huge hole in the plaster and it rains down on the men like snow. Karen knows that Frank is always armed, but he wrests the weapon from the man’s hands and knocks him to the ground.

The man is trying to scramble away. “Please, please, no! I’m just looking for some blonde bitch!”

Frank asks no questions; he has no message for the man to deliver. He is silent as he pumps the gun’s slide and clears the chamber. Karen looks away right before the shotgun is fired again, this time directly into the back of the man’s head.

Karen is still huddled in the alcove when Frank comes to her. He grabs her elbow to haul her to her feet, but she struggles.

“C’mon, we gotta get out of here,” Frank says.

Karen tries to pull her arm away. Despite her protests, she is not strong enough to resist getting yanked to her feet. “No, I’m going to call the cops like a normal person,” she snarls.

Frank growls. “Believe me, the police are coming. And we’re both gonna be standing here looking guilty when they do,” he says.

Karen does not want to go with Frank. But the overwhelming smell of blood and brains is getting to her, and it’s only a matter of time before one of her terrified neighbors gets brave enough to open their door. And maybe Frank is right about her leaving. What if there are more people coming for her?

They hurry down a staircase and into a snowy alley, where Karen immediately shoves at Frank. “What part of _you’re dead to me_ wasn’t fucking clear?” she yells.

Frank shrugs. “It’s my fault that you have people after you,” he says.

The fact that he has completely dodged the question only infuriates Karen further. “Does it even register in your brain that you killed someone?” she cries.

“Yeah, I killed someone that was gonna put buckshot through your skull,” Frank says. “He didn’t exactly have a bouquet of roses tucked under his arm.”

“I don’t need your help, Frank. Not like that. Not anymore.”

“I think you’re confusing want and need,” Frank says dryly.

Karen can’t think of anything to say in return. He’s right about her needing his protection. The police can’t offer the kind of help she needs. Karen sighs heavily, running a gloved hand through her lank hair. “What am I supposed to do?” she asks. “I want to go home.”

“Not tonight,” Frank says with a shake of his head. He looks down the alley as police cars speed up the street, casting their blue and red lights all around.

“I guess I’ll see if I can stay with Foggy…”

“Come stay with me.”

Karen frowns. She wasn’t expecting such an offer. “Really, Frank. You’ve done enough.”

“Just for tonight,” he says.

Karen wants to say no. She wants to argue further. But it’s cold and she has cramps and there is a man with his brains blown out just ten feet from her front door. All she wanted to do tonight was take off her goddamn bra and lay down with her heating pad, for fuck’s sake.

“Fine,” she says, doing nothing to hide the irritation she feels.

Frank tucks his new shotgun into his jacket and they share an utterly silent walk to where he’s been hiding out. From the outside, the building looks like any other warehouse or storage facility in the five boroughs. But it is divided into apartments on the inside. The kind of units where people don’t ask questions as they come and go.

The apartment is small and dingy, but it’s well taken care of. The entire place is packed with neat stacks of ammo cans and plastic hard cases where weaponry rests in molded foam padding. There is a tiny galley kitchen and a bed made with perfect hospital corners. In lieu of a couch and TV or a dining room table and chairs, Frank has set up his work station. A table is illuminated by a shop light, the surface scattered with pieces of guns and tools. Next to it rests his police radio.

Karen jumps when a gray pitbull leaps up from the dog bed underneath the table and bounds over to them. It barks a few times, but its tail is wagging.

“Hi, baby,” Frank says to the dog as it jumps on him.

Karen is still pissed, but she can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth as she watches Frank interact with the dog. He loves that damn thing, and it’s clear the affection is mutual.

“You like dogs?” Frank asks, glancing at her. “She jumps, but she won’t hurt you.”

Karen nods. “Yeah, I like dogs.”

The dog seems unsure of the visitor, growling softly under her breath as she sniffs at Karen’s bare legs. Karen decides the dog is finally cool with her when she licks her kneecap.

“Are you hungry?”

At first, Karen thinks Frank is talking to the dog. She wants to make a nasty comment about the sight of gray matter making her lose her appetite, but she doesn’t. “MREs for dinner?” she asks, looking around.

Frank’s face lights up with amusement. “Oh, you think you’re funny?” he asks.

“Well, I was going to order Chinese before I had my life both threatened and saved,” she says. Karen finds herself fighting off another smile.

“Okay, Chinese,” Frank says. “There’s a place right across the street.”

There isn’t really anywhere for them to sit in the apartment, so they agree to go to the restaurant. Karen has a moment of surreality as she sits on the edge of Frank’s bed, waiting for him to wash the blood and plaster dust off his body. For a moment, nothing feels real. She has to pet his dog to keep her tethered to Earth.

Frank’s face isn’t as battered as usual, but he still wears a dark baseball cap to conceal most of it. The smell of cooking rice and the indistinct chatter of a foreign language comforts Karen as they sit down in a booth. She feels shaky from skipping lunch and pulls more ibuprofen from her purse the second she has her drink.

The rattling of pills catches Frank's attention. “This is probably a stupid-ass question, but are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking about how weird my life is,” Karen says. She puts four of the brownish pills into her mouth and swallows them with a sip of water.

“You need 800 mg of ibuprofen for that?”

“It does tend to give me a headache.”

Karen is glad that Frank isn’t one to pry. She really doesn’t want to tell the Punisher that, on top of everything else, her impending period is causing her problems. After a few minutes of silence, Karen speaks again.

“I guess I should say thank you,” she says.

Frank looks bemused. “Even though you’re pissed at me?”

“I’m not—”

“Oh, bullshit. You're stomping around with your arms crossed,” Frank says. He wraps his arms around his sides to mimic how Karen has been carrying herself. “And you got that little frown going on. You’re mad.”

Karen rolls her eyes at the unflattering impression. “Can you blame me?”

“Nope. Just making an observation.”

Their conversation pauses as their food is brought to the table. Karen stirs her egg drop soup with the little plastic spoon that came with it. She looks up to see Frank pulling apart his crab rangoon.

“I like you, Frank,” Karen says. “But I don’t like the things you do.”

Frank doesn’t look at her, instead focusing on his food. “Fair enough.”

Karen considers the fact that she could be zipped inside a body bag right now if it wasn’t for Frank keeping tabs on her. She’s more angry that scenario is even a possibility in her life than she is at Frank for putting a stop to it in the only way he knows how. He means well, even if his methods are horrifying.

“Thank you for looking out for me,” she says.

“You've done a lot for me,” Frank says. “I owe you.”

Frank uses a fork to eat his Szechuan beef, while Karen picks through her milder sesame chicken with a pair of chopsticks. She doesn’t have much of an appetite, but she gets a box for her leftovers in the hopes that she will want to eat more later. Something about this must worry Frank, who completely demolished his meal.

“You hardly ate,” he says, frowning as he watches Karen close the styrofoam lid of her doggie bag.

“Almost getting murdered kind of killed my appetite,” she replies.

Karen is tired when they return to Frank’s apartment. The ibuprofen has taken the sharp edge off her cramps, but she is still wishing she had her trusty heating pad. Her cramps are always bad a few days before her period, like her uterus is just flexing angrily.

“You can take the bed,” Frank says. “I’ll get you something to change into, if you’re cool with that.”

“Yeah, but where are you going to sleep?” Karen asks.

The bed is a queen, so there’s more than enough room for the both of them. They don’t even have to touch. She has no qualms about sharing a bed, but Frank seems to be erring on the side of gentlemanly caution. Karen watches as he goes to a plastic tote and begins to look through what little clothing he owns.

“I’m probably just going to clean my guns. I’ll be quiet,” he says, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

“You should sleep, Frank.”

“Might be hard to believe, but I don’t sleep well anymore.” He hands her the neatly folded clothes. “Pants are probably way too big.”

Karen thanks him, but she won’t give up on him bedding down with her. She knows he’s exhausted just by the way he carries himself. Frank shrugs her off with a noncommittal grunt and dutifully turns away so she can change.

It’s strange to think of Frank doing normal things like laundry, but it’s obvious he does. The t-shirt is soft from dozens of washings and she gives it a quick, appreciative sniff before undressing. It feels good to pull down her tight pencil skirt and take off her blouse. Freeing her aching breasts from her bra is a relief. Frank’s t-shirt is big enough that it skims her thighs, so she decides to forego the sweatpants unless she gets cold.

Now that Karen is “decent,” Frank comes over to pull back the blankets on the bed. The mattress is bare and sits low on a layer of wooden pallets, but it’s clean and neatly made. It’s obvious that Frank needs some sort of order in his life, probably instilled in him during his days in the Marines.

“Blankets are yours,” he says, flopping them over to Karen’s side.

“What are you going to sleep with?” she asks.

He pulls a green camouflage blanket from under the pillows. “Woobie.”

“Woobie?” Karen doesn’t think she’s heard Frank right.

“You know, like a security blanket? But it’s a poncho liner. Lots of soldiers get attached to theirs and write ‘em off as field losses to bring ‘em home,” he explains.

“Is that what you did with yours?” Karen asks with a little smile.

Frank grins, then looks down like he’s shy. “Yeah.”

It’s the cutest goddamn thing Karen has heard in awhile. She slips under the covers and pulls them up around her shoulders in an effort to get cozy. Frank mills around like a restless animal—locking the door, turning off the lights, but ultimately getting ready for bed. He steps into the small bathroom to change, emerges in a long-sleeved henley and sweatpants. Karen pretends to look be engrossed in her phone, but she is actually taking in the sight of Frank in pajamas. She wonders if this is what he normally sleeps in, or if he just crashes in whatever he happens to have on.

The second Frank sits on the edge of the bed, the dog comes leaping onto the mattress. She practically tramples Karen in her excitement.

“Stop, stop,” Frank says, grabbing her collar. His voice is firm, but not angry. “Sorry. She usually sleeps with me.”

“Oh, that's okay. She's not hurting anything,” Karen says.

Frank pets the dog’s slick fur, encouraging her to settle in. “She'll calm down.” The dog leans in to lick his face and he gives a laugh. “I hope.”

Karen is smiling from where she is lying on her side. She likes seeing softness in a man who has no earthly reason to be gentle or kind. Frank unfurls his woobie and wraps up in it. When he lies down, the dog curls up for pets from the both of them. She stills except for her tail thumping against the bed.

“Calm yer shit,” Frank says affectionately. The dog licks at his bruised and scabbed knuckles.

Karen feels sleepy despite the strange and upsetting day she’s had. Subconsciously, she knows that she is safe next to Frank Castle. She rolls onto her front and Frank moves to lay on his side, facing the wall. The dog is welcome warmth between them, and Karen is comforted by the sound of the radiator pinging softly.

She doesn’t even realize she’s fallen asleep until she is awoken by Frank getting out of bed. Karen has no idea how long she’s been asleep; she is fumbling for her phone when she feels Frank draping his woobie over her.

“Go back to sleep,” he says softly. “Too damn early to be up.”

Karen gives up the halfhearted search for her phone and draws her arms underneath the covers. She finds that she’s surprisingly comfortable beneath the pile of blankets. A cramp is digging into her, but she is too tired to do anything about it. She drifts, caught between sleep and awareness, while listening to Frank quietly moving around the apartment. The shower runs for a few minutes, then there’s noise in the kitchen as Frank makes coffee. Karen falls asleep to the sound of Frank cleaning guns.

She doesn’t know how much time has passed when she wakes up again. It’s late morning, according to her phone. As she moves to roll over and sit up, she feels it. That heavy, weighted feeling between her legs. Karen doesn’t have to look to know that she’s started her period early. She has bled through both her panties and Frank’s t-shirt, and there is a spot of blood on the bare mattress. Karen sits carefully on the edge of the bed, feeling nauseous from her cramps and incredibly embarrassed otherwise.

Frank is still cleaning guns. “Sleep okay?” he asks, not looking up from his work.

“I started my period,” Karen says. She puts her head in her hands for a moment before reaching for her purse.

“Oh, shit,” Frank says.

Karen digs through her bag, searching for a tampon or a pad. Hell, even a pantyliner would be great right now. Her search gets frantic when she hears Frank stand from his chair and walk the few feet over to the bed.

“I’m so sorry, Frank.” It all comes out in a panicked rush and Karen can’t believe that her eyes are stinging with tears. She continues to rifle through her purse. “There’s some blood—”

“That’s no problem. Just tell me what you need,” Frank says. His gruff voice is low, concerned.

Karen hates how tight her throat is, how close she is to sobbing. “I need tampons,” she blurts out. “And underwear.”

“Okay.” Frank grabs his gray jacket and threads his arms through the sleeves. “You take a shower. There is ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet, and a heating pad on the floor on my side of the bed.”

Karen wipes at her eyes. She’s certain that Frank knows she’s crying, but he doesn’t point it out. “Thank you,” she says.

“Just sit tight,” he responds.

Karen doesn’t move until Frank has left the apartment, and she doesn’t cry until she’s in the shower. Her panties are ruined, but that’s the least of her worries. She can’t get the blood out of Frank’s t-shirt, despite her best efforts. Karen doesn’t even know why she’s so upset. She can escape an attempt on her life without shedding a single tear, but is bawling in Frank’s shower because she got blood on his bed.

She stays in the shower, letting the water drum against her back, until she calms down. She is wrapped in a towel and trying to scrub the stain out of the mattress when Frank returns. His nose is red from the cold; there is a dusting of snow on the shoulders of his jacket.

“I kinda panicked,” he says, handing her the plastic sack. “Realized pretty quick that there are a lot of different kinds of tampons.”

Karen smiles. She’s certain that periods aren’t a foreign concept to Frank, but the mental image of him being puzzled by an entire aisle of tampons and pads is pretty damn amusing. “I’m sorry I wasn’t very specific,” she says. “Thank you.”

She has plans to get dressed and disappear in a hurry, but Frank tosses another one of his t-shirts at her before she goes into the bathroom. It seems almost rude to leave after he’s done all this for her. Her soft smile returns when she looks in the bag. Inside is a variety pack of tampons and a three-pack of cotton briefs that fit surprisingly well. She almost misses the Hershey bar underneath the receipt.

Frank is plugging in the heating pad when Karen comes out of the bathroom. It’s obvious he wants her to stay a while longer.

“Is this yours?” she asks, gesturing with the candybar.

“Nope.” He pauses as if he’s considering his actions. “Shit, was that rude?”

Karen gives an amused snort. “No. It’s sweet.”

Frank lays the heating pad out on the bed. “Just making sure. I don’t want you yellin’ at me.”

“Oh, is that what women do when they’re on their period?” Karen asks teasingly.

“My old lady did. She—” Frank chuckles, ducking his head for a moment. “She’d be pissed if she knew I called her that. Anyways, she’d always lose her shit over little things. One time I came in from mowing and kicked my shoes off by the door. Well, I didn’t quite get ‘em on the mat and she came after me. She said: ‘This place ain’t your Marines barracks.’ All we had was a push mower, so I was sweaty and tired. Just wanted a beer. Feelin’ sassy, I guess, because I thought it was a good idea to come back with: ‘My barracks were a lot cleaner than this place.’ Jesus.” He laughs again, like he’s remembering the ensuing fight with fondness. “I knew I was in trouble as it was leavin’ my mouth. And she never let me forget it.”

Frank's story makes Karen laugh, but even his funny ones are tinged by sadness. She could listen to him talk all day, though. “You deserved that one,” she says.

“Don’t I know it,” Frank says with a little shake of his head. “Hell, I'd be bent out of shape if I was bleedin’ for a week and everyone just wanted me to carry on like everything was normal. Fuck that.”

Karen nods. “Cramps, too.”

Right now, hers are so bad that she can't resist the heating pad any longer. She curls up on the mattress and hugs it against herself. The flood of intense warmth brings almost instantaneous relief. Frank sits on the edge of the bed, pallets creaking underneath as he does so.

“I'll tell ya, I was an ignorant man before I met my wife. Never knew the true horror of a period, and she wasn't shy about letting me in on it. Women are straight-up beasts,” he says.

“Not always. I cried in your shower for a good fifteen minutes.”

“What, you think I never dealt with a little blood before?” he asks, looking over at her. “Or that I've never been sent out to get tampons?”

Karen gives a shrug. It seems silly now, but she was really upset at the time. She’s grateful that Frank understands. “Thank you,” she says.

He pats Karen’s hip and stands up. “No problem. You want breakfast?”

“You can cook?” Karen asks, feeling suddenly mischievous.

Frank’s eyes widen and he laughs. “Best damn eggs you ever had,” he says.

“That sounds good,” Karen says with a small smile.

She lays with the heating pad while Frank bangs pans around in the tiny kitchen. Bacon, eggs, toast, and black coffee is a decidedly Frank Castle sort of breakfast, and they sit on the edge of the bed to eat it together.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Come hang out with me on Tumblr!](http://www.prozacplease.tumblr.com)
> 
> ♥ Comments are always appreciated. ♥


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